Achas
by Helkh
Summary: Legolas is among the troops cleaning up the remains of the shadow in Mordor, but finds that not all evil comes in the form of snarling monsters. [FR/LOTR]


**Achas 1**  
Down in a Bitter Cave

**Note:** There is no romance in this at all, nor will there ever be. Ignore female characters who seem threating to your love-life with your favorite characters. They won't intrude, honestly!

  
  
_Aduial_ this was not. In fact, regardless of the supposed 'high vision' of my people, I could see not a damned thing. There was not chance in preserving any measure of dignity I discovered, after wiggling around pathetically and finding myself bound and half naked, no doubt the result of some perverse fetish my captors possessed. Wriggling like a halfling to supper likely would not gain me any insight into my current situation if I could see naught but the ass-end of a Nazgul. Which wasn't true in the least, since I haven't actually seen (nor do I want to) the ass-end of a Nazgul. Suffice to say, it was stiflingly hot and _quite_ dark.

Ai, how I bemoaned the day I ever agreed to father's constant pestering, enhanced by Elrond's frightening choice of persuasion and Aragorn's distant threatening. He was unable to physically cow me, fussing with the politics of his newly acquired throne, which was perfectly fine by me. And so it was, the heir of Mirkwood was sent off to battle once more (not quite a war, merely a scraping of the remaining bottom feeders in Mordor).

I suddenly had the sinking feeling I had done something hideously wrong during my life, and this was the result of my denial from the West, then discarded the notion. If this really was some twisted reality Eru had devised just for my own personal pleasure upon death, I would not feel as though I'd been hanging for several _yen_ in a spider trap. The lovely experience would be reality, with the additional fun of being sucked lifeless for all eternity.

Perhaps my twisted imagination was what volunteered me initially to ride into Imladris and be promptly sent off on a sure-death romp. Father couldn't stand my constant paranoia, and was probably hoping I'd fall into some crack in the Earth and ever be seen again. Imagine his horror when I dripped my way into the main cavern trailing a surly dwarf quite sure he'd be captured and subjected to bad mead. I informed Gimli that Elves merely did not drink such things. I'm afraid he thought me the result of what happens to the Firstborn when they _do_.

Was I hanging on the side of a wall, or was I actually on steady ground? The blinding headache could indicate either. I tried kicking. Fighting a wave of nausea after rolling myself over quite forcefully, it was floor underneath, for sure.

I had fallen into that miserable _Deri_ pool, hadn't I? Lying in the inner depths of Mordor, it, like most Elven-named things in completely Elf-free areas, was invisible until you stuck an unsuspecting leg in the thing. By then it's too late, and whatever foul things happened when one stuck said extremity in it would be bound to happen. It always seemed to work tenfold on an Elf, and usually with burning flesh, fireworks and other surprises. This notion made me wonder whether my head had burned off and nothing but a smoking stump remained, for it certainly _felt _that way.

The stone felt quite warm, even after my cheek moved over a new area, which was odd. I then realized I likely had been captured and now lay in some stinking Orc stronghold in the Ash Mountains. Another idea wasted, for I certainly could not smell the beasts nearby or on the little clothing left to me. Perhaps if I didn't cease the continuous mental babble, my head _would_ disintegrate to a smoking stump. After nearly three thousand years, it had not yet done so, and Father had never aided it, even putting up with my constant conversation. Mind you, I rarely spoke out of turn when with others, and my conversations mainly were to myself, but to an Elf's hearing.. Needless to say Thranduil may not have found my mutterings in the tunnels as he sought for sleep very amusing.

And it was these inane streams of consciousness that brought the eyes about me. Preferring to meet my death (for, you see, the Eru-blessed hell idea I'd previously been entertaining held no logical ground and thus had been discarded) on my feet, I struggled to stand up. After several muttered curses that would have scorched even Elladan's eyebrows (he was prone to loud fits of rage in the occurrence of any provocation at all - must take after his father), I managed to do just that, with a great deal of suffering on the part of my poor brain.

I realised rather lately that the problem of my blindness in the dark could be solved quite quickly. Another thing to swear about; after I had adjusted my vision to the appropriate levels to accommodate the lightlessness of cave life, not only was I surrounded by a lot of rather hostile-looking Elves with distinctly sharp weapons, but the heavy feeling I had felt upon waking was the oppressive emotion gained when one realizes two million tons of rock lies above you. The sudden stab of pain in my jaw caused me to notice I was still rambling to myself and likely was the cause of the nervousness of my captors, though the feeling even if I hadn't been talking they would not have sat me down to a picnic was quite strong. I closed my mouth firmly, and the grand total of two relaxed slightly. They were at the back of the group. I sighed and prayed to Eru (who must not have forsaken me, as I was not currently spider food) for my immortality to see me through this.

By the way the two forefront leaders turned to each other with a sneer, I was under the impression I had grown a third eye as a result of the incident with the _Deri_ pool. No one really knew what it did, anyway, just that something bad would likely happen. If only I had my hands to see if my suspicions were correct.

I was approached by a narrow-eyed spear-wielder. "You are awake?"

It was poorly pronounced Quenya, and I had a very weak grasp of the language even when it was spoken by someone familiar to it. I nodded, then quickly decided upon the scratch of a dagger at my throat that any more activity should be done slowly and carefully.

"Intelligence of Orc," was the sneered response. "Improvement."

I felt vaguely insulted, but couldn't be bothered to do anything about it, weapon less as I was.

"Speak Sindarin?"

Something I knew, even if it was quite pathetic that a Prince couldn't speak Quenya to save his miserable hide at elaborate dinners. Eyeing the dark hand with the tool of destruction rather closely held at my throat, I deemed enough safety to speak. "Quite well, actually. Yourself?"

I received an annoyed hiss and a cut welling with blood for my trouble, which just proved why I spoke rarely amongst others. One was either insulted, ignored, attacked, or stared at in amusement.

I was pushed roughly forward and felt that if I hadn't been so close to my holder, I would have been kicked. Promptly told I would 'see the Matron', I didn't miss the disdainful tone and muttered 'Faerie'. Now I felt more than vaguely insulted, enough childhood nightmares held that taught, though I'm quick to state I'm no more feminine than most of my race. I shook my head in annoyance.

It took a moment to realize my arm had been neatly sliced open and a cuff over the back of the head accompanied a thinly-veiled threat. "You are lucky you have not been slowly killed, Elf." A female voice. It was a bit of shock to be bullied by a woman, but I dryly thought of the ease with which Arwen carried it out upon me.

Never one to put much value on life, I smiled thinly. "Are you not one yourself?"

Another slice.

This was getting irritating quite quickly. "If you want me to live until I reach your Matron, removing the steel from my flesh may be an idea."

A hand closed on the wounds and twisted viciously, only relenting when I winced and sucked in my breath. A satisfied grunt sounded behind me while I tried not to think of the blood draining onto the stone floor. I quite like all the blood I can keep _inside_ me to stay there. Not that I would die, of course. However, one usually doesn't find being a twitching husk very entertaining.

Who were these people? My mind strayed to the _Moriquendi_. I knew little of them, only that they were spoken of as the Dark Elves and the loss of the Trees to them. Exotic and highly dangerous could sum up these Elves. I was unaware of their intentions, though it seemed I wouldn't suffer a painful end quite yet, unless of course, I was stabbed to death by jumpy guards. Perhaps I had hit my head on my fall into the pool, which would explain my resignation to the uncharacteristic hostility I was being shown.

Or maybe my curiosity distracted me. The stone corridor darkened slightly, which was quite a feat, considering the lightless nature of it. I stepped over the tripwire carefully, hoping not to get impaled for the movement.

Quite suddenly jerked into a dimly lit chamber, applause and a quiet laughter greeted me, neither sound making me relax in the slightest. Quite the contrary. I suddenly felt rather naked without my weapons and the majority of my clothing.

The smug woman sitting casually at an elaborate throne called something taunting in a rather jerky language I could not begin to decipher. I didn't respond. Quenya again was the next attempt at communication, albeit a much better effort had been made with the tongue. "You were not blinded."

Why does everyone automatically assume I know something I really ought to? 'Tis far beyond my understanding. "No."

A collective jerk ran through the entire party, which had lined the wall still clutching weapons apprehensively. Had I said something wrong? The Matron merely smiled, shifting to Sindarin, as the other had. Perhaps thoughts of others came to her easily, as one would wonder with Elrond who was told little but knew of everything he hadn't been informed about.

"Very astute, Elf. You seem to be of higher intelligence than the other swine you call kin." Her smile grew as my jaw tightened. "A raid has recently slaughtered at least three communities. A hunt well done, even if the fourth was botched by a sentimental soul."

Suddenly I didn't really care that I had no weapons and my hands were firmly tied behind my back. This couldn't be an Elf, and needed to be eradicated. Unfortunately, my forward step was cut off by several hands and a blade 'persuading' me back to my original position.

"He was promptly killed, of course," she continued without worry. My hands clenched reflexively. "We can't have another recurrence of that pitiful Do'Urden that's been causing so much hassle. I really think he should be given up on. Morals have no place here, but I'm sure you know all about them. Your race is full of sentimental buffoons who couldn't save their lives against a scarecrow."

I could see her eyes glittering with anticipation of my explosion. Determined she would not get the pleasure, I carefully smothered my rage and focused on the spider webs carved into the throne just above her head. I hate orcs, trolls, and many other vicious things almost as much as I hate spiders. It's a wonder I ever survived in Mirkwood.

"I suppose you would not find the hot blood of your kindred on you as your blade takes out their throats very amusing, would you?" She lent forward.

Beautiful carving, though. Imagining the legs on the wretched things being pulled off them one by one was tantalizing.

"Or perhaps the screams of the children?"

Unfortunately they were stone. Such a pity.

The Matron slid back and looked at me a long while as I counted the number of legs I could remove from the stone spiders if they had only been animate. Quite suddenly I realized they _were_. Repulsive.

A sharp pain in my knees brought me back to reality and caused me to notice I had fallen to a kneel. I also found I couldn't somehow move from this position. It was a horrifying feeling, and the rage began to bubble again under the firm rock I had placed upon it.

She looked distinctly pleased. With herself or my sudden inability to move, I didn't know but suspected both. "Greenleaf of the Shadowed Wood. Gone for two thousand and now back under the care of a loving Matron." I struggled furiously but in reality moved not an inch. The rage was definitely beginning to consume me, and to be honest; I didn't care.

"As loving as an orc to a prone child!" I spat, losing my temper.

She smiled again, as though she had never stopped to frown at me in my silence. "Quite right. And you are far better than any _Zin-Carla_. And best of all, you are quite unwilling. It'll make the whole ordeal much more appealing and effective in securing a high reputation of this House. Fei'ron, do take the helpless thing to his quarters. Plans and hunts to be followed and planned you know."

This last was directed at me, intended to be a barb. I could only muse scornfully that 'Fei'ron' sounded much like _faron_. I left the chamber with a slightly twisted smile.

*****

Over the next week, it seemed my rage only deepened. It became a cloud I could not escape, and as the days passed, it became the sort of burning hatred one feels like a sickly sweet tendril of oppressive emotion. I was promptly unbound as soon as the woman with the dagger, Fei'ron, had led me to a simple (but not uncomfortable) room and left me alone. It was a small relief, but the smothering silence of the place unnerved me the first day.

But somehow it felt as though I was completely used to it, merely thinking something unfamiliar.

I soon discovered I held this opinion about the entire complex. I was free to roam but not to leave the area, and was to be tolerated and not to be harassed. Under the stiff actions of the guards I was certain this race - branch of my people hated me with a furious passion and would like nothing better than to cut me down instantly. It didn't take me long to carry all my weapons at any given time.

They had been in my 'room' when I first entered, carefully placed on a plain table. The quiver was completely filled with arrows fletched with feathers I had never seen before and tipped in a wicked metal I could not discern the origin of. I replaced it swiftly, after cutting my thumb. I didn't carry the bow because of the bulk and the fact it would make me look like open, paranoid prey. Not that anyone was allowed to kill me. It might just be an accident.

"I highly doubt any killing around here hasn't been planned well in advance or happens 'accidentally'." I was talking to myself again, a habit impossible to break, it seemed. At least people could hear me coming and not get touchy about being snuck up on. The day before I witnessed what happened when these people were surprised suddenly. I went away from that fighting to keep myself in check.

I left my room to try and learn my way around the maze, a feat I had not yet accomplished. Halfway through the small part I had memorized in the last few days, Fei'ron fell into step beside me. We walked in silence (as I had stopped muttering at this point) for some time before she spoke.

"You really don't know who we are, do you?"

I cast her a sidelong look but kept silent and ran through the last tunnel pattern again in my mind. She seemed the only one who bothered with me, even if she never spoke and lashed out if I made a sudden move. Not too bad a being, I didn't make a point of avoiding her. Much better than the rest of the stinking society, at least.

"Drow."

"What?" I admit it was a little harsh, but I wasn't about to apologize. She didn't reply for a long while.

"If you take a constant right, you'll turn yourself in circles."

I turned to demand understanding of this comment but she had disappeared. Perplexed, I stared at the fork in the hallway that looked strangely familiar.

*****

The structure of the place was very simple. If one took the left tunnel each time, a cavern would be at the end of it, and then one had to constantly take right turns until the next cavern. It made travelling any distance an annoyance, and one had to be able to read the writing carved into the wall between the two exits in each cavern to discern whether to go left or right. I quickly learned to read them, by trial and error.

I routinely moved through the tunnels, sure that there was an easier way to go about travelling that I just hadn't been told about yet, which was a small wonder, since few would even pay me the light of day. The thought of brooding in my quarters wasn't favourable, as I would likely work myself into a froth or a severe depression.

Usually my wanderings would be shared with the only female that seemed to possess a measure of sanity: Fei'ron.

Eventual knowledge came to me through intense sessions of verbal battle, which she seemed to enjoy immensely, even if she would sooner die than admit it. Or maybe she _would_ admit it. The entire race seemed unpredictable and extremely disturbed. I was beginning to find _myself_ unpredictable. Doing things that I normally wouldn't dare. Talking in any amount. Allowing my cynicism to take full reign and not bother to oppress it for the sake of others. Saying the things I'm thinking, not the things that people want to hear. Considering where I was, it didn't seem to matter.

I began to understand the workings of this underground city. I was told Menzoberranazan lay at least a mile underground, likely more. Fei'ron was unsure, but it explained the heat of the stone. Things deeply underground made me uneasy; the feeling that the ceiling would suddenly shift and crush all below was stifling. I got over it quickly.

The knowledge of the Academy, the Houses, and what passed for 'justice' only made me seethe even more. It was a mockery of the surface and what was run there. Here, murder was perfectly acceptable and not questioned if it would lead eventually to the greatness of the Goddess. Lloth.

I hate spiders, and told Fei'ron exactly that. She advised me never to let this on or I'd be tortured for the rest of my life with a laugh that convinced me the logic was sound enough never to entertain the thought of insulting the creatures again. At least, out loud.

She seemed surprised to discover I was immortal. Our conversation fell on that subject, naturally. Never one to let up knowledge, I'd come to discover, she threatened me until I relented.

Her threats were good-natured. Well, as good-natured as Drow threats come. I didn't worry. "We were created immortal. How should I know just what has been planned for us?"

I received an unimpressed stare. "Why are the Drow not immortal, if we're Elves as well?"

"I can't answer that. I don't know where you came from, beyond the delusional things you seem to be taught as children."

An agreeable nod. "You learn quickly."

And the next morning, I began to realise just how fast I would have to learn.

  
  
**Note:** Yes, I am well aware that LOTR and Icewind Dale is a 'popular' mix, and makes very little sense. I'll try to justify it by ignoring some facts from either side, and making a big, fat deviation from Tolkien's works. So if the mistake is really obvious, it's probably supposed to be there, or I got into the Kahlua again.

My perception of characters should be quite apparent, and likely quite different than the original idea perceived by the creator. In part it seems to be the stylistic choices made in the original text, but I certainly don't mind pulling a little more from between the lines.

Quite frankly, I don't see Legolas as a silent, benevolent creature who's first thought is for the sake of others. Even that pansy drow Drizzt has lapses in his 'perfect' demeanour. Not to say the Prince is a selfish person or anything, I merely believe there's more potential than Tolkien showed for him. Regardless of the Elvish reputation, it's doubtful Elrond would nance around in a perfect world of serenity at all times. In that example, he rarely does.

The House that controls Legolas will remain nameless until I can manage to get my hands on Legacy of the Drow. I may even have to change cities, but I'm thinking I won't. Unless, of course, that preening peacock of a drow (Jarlaxle) blows up all of Menzoberranazan because some wizard managed to singe his hat in battle. I wouldn't doubt it, and I certainly believe the hat must mean more than all of Bregan D'aerthe put together. I may yet work something into the story, whether or not the character is dead, resurrected or other. Such is the life of a twisted fangirl. 


End file.
